'Well,' I said, 'what about writing? You use your toes, right?'
She shook her head; Her lips parted slightly. 'I use my mouth.' Her mouth opened wider; she formed it into an O, then closed it slowly as if she was gripping a pencil. Or something.
'I see,' I said, my voice suddenly several octaves higher. Somewhere in Ireland a sheep dog responded.
She giggled again. 'Of course I don't use my mouth. Not to write. I can paint with it though. You know, with a brush.' She opened her mouth a little further, a little rounder. 'The shaft is much thicker.'
'I see,' I said, and I did. I was picturing it.
'Go on then,' she said, 'ask me something else.'
'I . . .'
'Ask me about sex.'
'I . . .'
'Isn't that what all men think about?'
'Yes.' Although it sounded more like Yeeeeeaaaash.
'Well, ask me then.'
'What, about sex?'
'Yes. Anything.'
'Well, what . . . what . . .'
'You want to know what I do, how I manage . . .'
No, I . . .'
'How I pleasure myself without any arms or hands or fingers?'
'No, really. I, I mean . . . too much information . . .'
'Do you know what I do?'
'No, and I really . . .'
'Do you know what I use?'
'I have no id—'
'I use my feet.'
'You use your . . . ?'
'And a banana.'
At this point I melted onto the rock and oozed away into the sea. There was sultry flirty talk and there was VAULTING OVER THE BOUNDS OF HUMAN DECENCY.
'Christ,' I said.
'There's an image to store on your mainframe,' she said, and laughed. I nodded helplessly. 'What do you think about that, Dan? Me and a banana? A nice, fresh, curved, yellow banana.'
'I . . . I mean . . . great. Whatever turns you . . . I mean . . .' I cleared my throat. 'Aren't you worried about pesticides?'
She nodded. 'You are a perceptive man. I put a condom on it. Do you want me to show you how I put a condom on it?'
'I think I can guess.'
I blew air out of my cheeks. My body temperature was off the scale. She made Lolita look like a big thick farmgirl. Half of me knew she was only winding me up. Which leaves half of me that didn't. Besides, you can only wind a man so far before he explodes. Or runs away. Perhaps she sensed this. She said suddenly, 'You're burning up, Dan. Come on — let's go for a swim.'
'I . . .'
She raised her foot and began to peel her T-shirt back up over her body. But it was still slightly damp so it didn't come off easily. It stuck on her breasts. She tugged at it, but it wouldn't come free. She said: 'Help me, Dan.'
So I eased it up over her breasts.
She smiled gratefully. She was completely naked again. 'Swim,' she said.
'I've no trunks,' I said.
'Neither have I.'
'I . . .'
'Come on.' She began to hop confidently down across the rocks and then onto the shingle. She had a small, round, perfectly formed bottom. 'Come on!'
Skinny-dipping?
I had never skinny-dipped in my life. Also I had never run down a beach with an erection before. But I did it — and strangely enough, I did it to recover my modesty. Her back was towards me, she was doing her dolphin swim already. If I could make it to the water and disappear beneath it, she wouldn't see my erection, and hopefully the cool water would hasten its departure. So I could explain to Patricia without any guilt at all why I was swimming with the Venus de Milo.
Although I wasn't swimming, of course. I was up to my shoulders and fearing for my life. My toes were desperately searching for footholds in the sand. Michelle swam up to me and I tried to hide my discomfort, and my erection, because it wasn't going anywhere but north.
'You're very good,' I said, 'at the swimming.'
'I'm like a shark,' she said. 'Gotta keep moving or I drown.'
Right enough, she was kicking her legs furiously while bobbing in front of me. That is, she was kicking her legs furiously until she suddenly surged forward and wrapped them around me. In a general groin-to-groin-type position.
I went, 'Oh.'
She went, 'Ah.'
'Oh.'
'Ah.'
'Mmm,' I said as she bobbed up enough to kiss me on the lips. I caught her and kissed her back. I held onto her for a moment. She was already grinding against me. Her breasts were crushed against my chest.
I enjoyed the crush and the grind and the kiss and her tongue for around thirty-seven seconds; and then I slowly pushed her back. This took a huge amount of mental effort. I should get some sort of a medal. I pushed her back, but her legs remained clamped around me. And they were strong, as they needed to be. I had no doubt that she could flex them and break my spine. Or flex them and force me to enter her. Which was as close as from here to over there.
She gasped, 'What?'
'I lied. I'm married.'
'So am I.'
She used her legs to pull herself in for another kiss. I co-operated, but only for twenty-six seconds.
I pushed her away again. 'You're divorced, Michelle. I'm not.'
She smiled indulgently. 'I'm divorced twice,' she said, 'but I got married again.'
I took a deep breath. 'You're . . .'
'I'm married to DJ.'
'You're married to your dad?'
'He's not my dad!'
At times like this I normally rubbed at my brow in frustration. But she'd pulled herself closer again and now I had one of her breasts in either hand and it would have seemed impolite to release them.
'You're married to DJ?'
'Yes!'
'And yet you're . . .'
'Yes!'
'But why?!'
'Because he's lousy in bed!'
'Then why did you marry him!'
'Because he asked me!'
'If someone asked you to put your head in the fire, would you do that!'
'No!'
She was glaring at me now. Glaring at me, although her breasts were still in my hands and she was using her calf muscles to try and steer me into her nether regions.
Half of me was saying, Go for it.
And so was the other half.
But my third half was made of stronger stuff.
Moral fibre.
More than Davie, but still less than a Shredded Wheat.
She kissed me again and said, 'It doesn't matter.'
I kissed her back and said, 'Yes it does,' when I came up for air.' I'm in love,' I protested.
'So am I!'
It was no longer a question of guilt. Because I was guilty as charged. It was fear of retribution. At home in Belfast, Patricia suddenly sat up straight and growled. It was called instinct. It was about connection. She could smell my wicked ways at three thousand miles.
I had to make the break now.
When I was at the very tip of entering.
It was like turning back one foot from the summit of Mount Everest.
Or less than a foot.
It was like freezing in the World Cup Final on the point of scoring the winning goal.
It was the horse smiling at the camera for the photo finish, and losing the race.
I pushed her back for the final time. 'No!'
And this time I backed suddenly away, breaking the hold of her legs; she flailed helplessly in the water for a moment, then regained her buoyancy. She looked disappointed, but not particularly angry. Maybe I wasn't the first person she'd tried to seduce in this manner. Maybe I was the one hundred and thirty-first. She was the Siren of the Seas and I had survived. I had done the right thing. I had been good, despite terrible temptation. I was suddenly pleased with myself, although I didn't smile.
Michelle surfed away towards the shore.
And I thought: What the fuck am I playing at! Sex in the sea with a beautiful woman! Nobody for miles! Leaving this afternoon! Who could pos
sibly find out?!
'Michelle!' She didn't stop. 'Michelle! I'm sorry! I was wrong! Come back!'
She glanced back for a moment, but she kept moving towards the beach.
'Please! Come on!'
She stepped out of the sea and onto the shingle. I strode towards her through the water, which always looks rather ungainly. Then I followed her up the beach. We were both naked. It was Tarzan and Jane. Or from some points of view Laurel and Jane. She was gaining speed, hopping from rock to rock like a rock-hopping expert. I followed, erect, tough, determined. She was luring me into the long grass. She was playing hard to get. She would have me, but she would now set the rules, call the shots.
As she passed by where we'd been sitting Michelle scooped up her T-shirt and shorts with her foot and clasped them under one flipper. I was bounding up the beach towards her now, with the long loping strides of a baby giraffe. She grinned back at me, then scooped up my clothes as well. She secured them beneath her second flipper. Then she took off again across the rocks.
'Hey!' I shouted.
She laughed mischievously as she went.
She was as nimble as a gazelle.
I sped after her. More than once I slipped to my knees and cursed as I scraped them over the surface of the rocks, but I doggedly continued my pursuit. She was a woman. She could keep this going for ever, or until my erection faded. Which it showed no sign of doing. If anyone had been watching it would have looked very strange indeed. And if anyone had been video-taping, it could have been worth a fortune. At least on the Internet. Horned-up naked man pursues nude armless woman, pausing only to gash knees.
She was really enjoying herself; she was laughing aloud — so was I, in between curses.
'Come on, Michelle! You've had your fun! Come on! We can talk about this! We can lie down and talk about this! Come on! You know you want me!'
She threw her head back and cackled. Nice cackle. Women have to get cackles just right, otherwise they can sound like a fishwife. But she did it perfectly.
'Michelle!' I reached for her, but I was flapping at air. I grabbed out again, but missed by a fraction.
She jumped to another rock, I followed.
'You'll never get me!' she cried.
'Just you wait!'
I leaped after her. My arm extended, the very tips of my fingers touched her shoulder. It was hardly more than a butterfly's touch, but it was enough to knock her off-balance as she jumped to the next rock. She landed on it, but her feet failed to find the proper grip. Her left foot slipped to one side on a strand of seaweed; she stubbed a toe of her right. She let out a yelp.
She fell.
Anyone else could have put their arms out to protect themselves. But she couldn't.
'Michelle!'
She fell behind the rock, and for a moment she was out of my sight. I landed on the same rock.
'Michelle!'
I expected her to look up slightly dazed, slimed by seaweed, but with a cheeky grin. But she lay face down, motionless.
I jumped off the rock and landed beside her. Her forehead was sitting flush against another, smaller rock; blood from her head was rapidly oozing out across it. I groaned and bent to turn her. She was limp — her eyes were closed.
It wasn't straight out of the medical manual, but I shook her and bellowed, 'Michelle!'
There was a deep gash across her head; blood was now cascading down her face, her chest, across me. Her mouth opened and I thought she was going to say something, but there was only a cough of blood. A deep sigh followed it and then her mouth closed and her head sagged to one side. Her chest wasn't moving. I checked her pulse. I know nothing about checking pulses. But I was pretty sure she didn't have one.
'Michelle?' I said weakly.
There was no response. There was the gentle beat of the waves on the shore, the easy hissing of the wild grass back beyond the beach, and the wild, wild thump of my heart, but there was no response.
Michelle was dead.
25
There is an inevitability about certain things. That beautiful people will marry beautiful people, that Africans will starve, that America will invade, that teenagers will rebel and that the three chords of rock'n'roll will be revived every ten years or so. That once you set out on a course of evil it will inevitably lead you towards a sticky end, pausing only to slide a knife between your ribs wherever possible along the way. Michelle was dead and I was scraping out her grave in the windblown sand beyond the beach. Then I was carrying her in my arms. Then I was putting her in her grave and piling sand on top of her. Then I was collecting rocks and laying them out over the sand in a kind of random pattern that I hoped didn't look too much like a grave but which would nevertheless provide enough protection from the wind to prevent her young lifeless body from being exposed.
For any normal, moral, sane human being this was not the obvious course of action. The normal reaction would be to raise the alarm, go for help, carry her to the nearest house. Explain the dreadful accident.
But normal, moral and sane are three strands of human experience which do not figure heavily in my own, particularly here in Everglades City, with millions of dollars' worth of stolen gold in the bank, and there in St Pete's Beach with The Colonel mouldering on a slab. I was a murderer and a thief. I would not be believed. My only choice was flight.
I dived back into the water, washed the blood and sand from my body, dressed quickly and walked back into town along the beach. There were even fewer people on the sand now. When I reached the main drag I made a determined effort to move slowly and casually. I paused to check out a tourist store. From under the peak of my baseball cap I studied the front of the Mountain View Bar and Grill. It was lunchtime, customers went back and forth unconcerned. I crossed to our hotel. EC for once wasn't reading his paper, but chatting on the phone. He saw me cross the lobby, but didn't acknowledge me. When I was out of sight, I took the stairs three at a time.
Davie wasn't in the room. Lunch. I cursed. I packed my bag; then I packed his. I sat on the bed. I should wait for him to come back. Not make a fuss ― just explain calmly that we had to get the fuck out of town. But Davie was half-smitten. He wouldn't be content with just lunch. He'd take Kelly Cortez for a walk or a drive: he might not return for hours. What if, in the meantime, someone was to discover Michelle's body?
Christ.
Michelle.
Dead.
She was a beautiful temptress. And I had killed her. If I'd given in to her advances while in the sea, there would have been no chase, no slip on a rock, no head with a fissure in it.
My fault for showing moral courage.
I should have known better. Or I should not then have changed my mind and pursued her like a caveman. I had all but clubbed her around the head. Fred Flintstone had whacked out Wilma. Worse, he'd murdered Betty.
Shit. I couldn't just sit on the bed and wait for discovery. I had to get Davie; we had to get moving. I didn't even need to ask where he'd gone. There was only one decent restaurant in town.
With luck it would be busy enough for me to slip in and out without anyone really noticing; a quick word in Davie's ear, an apology to the good doctor and we'd be off. With luck, which is always my strong point.
I walked up to the Mountain View Bar and Grill and slipped inside. The bar was as busy as ever. DJ was looking hassled behind it. Good. The restaurant area was off to the right. Most of the tables were filled. I saw Davie sitting opposite Kelly Cortez. She was laughing. So was he, at least until he saw me coming towards him.
'Hi, Doc,' I said. Before she could respond, I said, 'Davie, I need a word.'
He spread his hands and said, 'Fire away.'
'No really — a word.' I indicated with my head that I wanted him outside.
'Relax,' he said. 'Pull up a chair.'
'Davie, I really need to talk to you.'
'Well, do it. Sit down and enjoy a beer at the same time. She's a doctor, man, she can't pass on your sordid little secrets. It's li
ke being a priest, except she can cure your boils as well.'
Kelly giggled.
'Davie, please.'
A voice from behind said, 'Excuse me,' and I turned to find DJ. My heart fluttered. He had a tray in his hand. He was trying to get a meal to the next table.
'Sorry,' I said, and moved out of his way.
He set the tray down and an elderly couple thanked him. DJ turned back and said, 'Typical of this town. Here's a man with bleeding knees and the doctor just sits there and ignores him.'
I looked at my knees. Davie, Kelly and DJ looked at my knees. 'Slipped on some rocks,' I said. 'They're fine.'
'Come on, Doc, help the man!' DJ laughed. He returned to the bar.
'You're like a big kid,' said Davie. 'Always wreckin' your knees.'
'Davie, I need to talk to you.'
'Come by the surgery after lunch, I'll clean those up,' said Kelly.
'Davie!'
This time he hissed at me: 'What's so fucking important?' He glanced at Kelly. 'Sorry, Kelly. I'm just,' and he looked back to me, 'trying to have a nice time.'
Kelly blushed again.
I said, 'I'm sorry, but it's an emergency.' I raised an eyebrow. I gave him a surreptitious wink. He ignored them both.
'Give me half an hour,' was the best he could manage. 'I'm sure we can—'
'We haven't got . . .' I trailed off. I sighed. I looked back to the bar. DJ was pouring a drink for JJ. Christ. The car.
I said, 'Hold on a minute,' and hurried across to where the mechanic was sitting with several of his cronies. I touched him on the shoulder. He took about a year to look round. Then he grunted.
'She ready?' I said.
'Who?' said JJ.
'The car — our car — the Land Cruiser.'
He looked vague for a moment, and then the gas finally caught. 'Oh yeah. He who drives into ditches. Sure, she's ready.' He indicated his glass of Bud with a grin. 'Gimme a chance to finish lunch, I be right with you.'
'Look, I really need her now.'
'Her? She's not a woman. She's a car.' He giggled. Beside him, CJ and MJ giggled too. He was showing off for the benefit of his friends. Take the piss out of the tourist. 'A car you can fix, but women — you can't fix them, that's for sure.' He grinned again and his mates nodded in agreement.
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 20